TWENTY-THREE

Mickey Seften did not slow his walk when he heard the shots echoing from the bathroom in the station. Rounds cracking out and people looking at one another with faces asking, Is that what I think it is? Yeah, shots fired in a toilet. Maybe by Toby, maybe by the cop who’d gotten the upper hand.

Mickey kept going.

If Toby had gotten killed, that was all right with him. He had never liked Toby all that much anyway. He wondered now why Terrill had sent Toby along to watch him. Mickey could have killed that cop himself. If he had had a gun, he could have. But Terrill had said he didn’t want Mickey carrying a gun on this trip. He’d said he wanted Mickey clean in case anyone stopped and searched him before he picked up the money. So Mickey had gone unarmed and Toby had brought along his big Buck knife. Toby liked knives. He had met up with them when they were in Canada for a few months. Toby was exploiting his heritage even then, stepping in and out of it when the time was convenient. Toby used to kayak down backwoods rivers, smuggling marijuana across the border. Toby was getting by, until he got into a wage dispute with one of his dealer bosses and Toby stabbed him to death. Toby left Canada then and migrated south with the rest of the jackal bins.

Mickey kept his reservations about Toby to himself. He had never believed that Toby had bought into their mission. He believed that Toby was too independent, not one to be beholden to much of anything. Not even his own culture. Yet Maggie and Terrill were quick to interpret any criticism of any culture apart from the Judeo-Christian one as deep-seated white supremacy. And maybe this discomfort with Toby stemmed from that. Mickey Seften was from Shaker Heights, Ohio, the son of upper-middle-class parents. His father was a successful patent lawyer, his mother a judge. He had not seen them in years. He couldn’t remember ever having liked them. His mother had been remote and cool. His father shaking his head a lot, more than once muttering, “Loser.” Both of them relieved when he left home.

Mickey had to stand at the intersection of Grand and Laclede for only a moment before Terrill pulled up in a Toyota Camry. Mickey got in.

Terrill said, “Where’s Toby?”

“He’s still there. I heard shots.” Mickey paused. “I think a cop may have killed him.”

Terrill had pulled away from the curb. He was driving west now on Laclede. He slowed to make a left turn onto Spring Avenue. Terrill was looking at him as they coasted down the hill.

They stopped at the traffic light at Spring and Forest Park Avenue. Sirens then, distant at first, then getting closer. They stayed at the light as two police cars and an ambulance raced by them, heading to the Grand Boulevard railway station, and Terrill knew Mickey was telling the truth.

Terrill said, “How did it happen?”

Mickey hesitated. Shrugged, and said, “The cop followed me into the bathroom and Toby just went crazy. Jumped him with a knife.”

“What did you do?” Terrill said.

“I left him,” Mickey said. He turned to Terrill, not wanting to hide his expressions now. He said, “Look, it’s not my fault Toby didn’t keep his cool. I had no weapon so there wasn’t much I could do to help. Besides, you yourself told me the important thing was to bring the money back.”

“Yeah, I told you that.”

“It’s not about the individual,” Mickey said, repeating something else Maggie and Terrill had taught him.

“I know,” Terrill said. He continued south on Spring Avenue until they got to I-64. He turned onto that and drove back east. Soon they were rising on the highway as the places they had used unfolded on their left: Union Station, downtown St. Louis. Then the Arch was in view and then behind them as they crossed over the Mississippi River and they were in Illinois.

It was when the city was behind them that Mickey felt the emotion. Two million dollars on them, two million fucking dollars, right there in the car with them. He had seen it in the bathroom, had touched it, had put his hands on it. It was there.

Mickey said, “Jesus, I can’t believe we did it. Two million dollars. Can you believe it?”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of money.”

“You were right, Terrill. It wasn’t that hard. They’re not that bright.”

“No, they’re not. Hey, who was the cop that was in the bathroom?”

“What? Oh, I don’t know. Just some guy in slacks and a jacket. He had dark hair.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yeah, I guess I would.”

Terrill said, “So you saw him long enough for that?”

Mickey shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”